


To Be Loved

by funkytoes



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Family Fluff, Romance, Slow Burn, like suuuuper slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2020-07-25 21:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20032633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funkytoes/pseuds/funkytoes
Summary: Before she was born, it was foretold that Princess Lothiriel would suffer greatly from the love of men. Her mother's dying words were words of power, to keep her daughter safe from suffering, to never trust the love of men.Now the Princess Lothiriel has become the Queen of the Riddermark. And though her heart is filled with love, will she learn to accept the love others have for her?





	1. Prologue

Princess Imelwen was infamous for her superstitions. She adhered to them as she did the laws of the land, and even her husband, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, could not easily ease her mind.

It was almost comical to some—how the princess adhered to her superstitions and the old wives tales. She was more superstitious than oldest sailors of Dol Amroth, and would only sail on certain days and months of the year—and even then, would chart the weather and tides, to determine if it was safe for her boys, the young princes, to even take a walk along the shore.

She would avoid certain foods on certain days, and some days she was sleep facing the west, and other days when she would have the maids turn her bed so she would be facing the south, and so on.

But Prince Imrahil loved her, for all her eccentricities. And they were quite happy.

“Your Highness,” one of the ladies of the court of Dol Amroth began, and Princess Imelwen looked up, an expectant smile on her face. “Do you think you will be giving our Lord another son? You are lucky to have had three already.”

The other ladies nodded their heads in agreement. Princess Imelwen smiled, smoothing her dress out, caressing her pregnant belly. “I do not know,” she said, finally, “But my husband and I hope for a girl. I feel so outnumbered by a husband and three sons…I wish to have a daughter. And of course, His Lordship has expressed his desire to have a daughter to dote on.” She smiled again, “But we will see.”

The other ladies smiled. “It is true,” Lady Melsa said. She was older, and well respected amongst the nobility of Gondor. “The bond between a mother and daughter is special. And you have had three sturdy young boys already—your husband has many heirs, so a daughter would be good. It would be good for your sons to have a little sister to protect and dote on.”

Princess Imelwen nodded her head. “Yes, we are in agreement in that.”

The princess returned her attention to her needlework, before giving out a gasp of pain, her needlework falling out of her hands onto the floor, as she pressed her hands against the swell of her belly.

The other ladies clambered from their seats, rushing to aid her.

She waved them off, a frown settling on her lips as the pain ebbed, but did not disappear. It was too soon for a healthy birth—she would need to seek out her midwife, to see what had caused the pain. Her husband would disapprove—Prince Imrahil would rather her to use the royal healers, but Princess Imelwen would only trust Dua, the midwife from her childhood home, who had followed the princess to Dol Amroth when the now princess had married Prince Imrahil.

“Forgive me,” Imelwen said, rising from her seat. “I must go rest.”

She turned, and with the help of her maid, returned to her chambers. She lay in her bed, and waited with much stress until her maid returned with Dua.

“Pain?” Dua asked, approaching Imelwen’s bed.

Imelwen nodded. “Yes—it happened so suddenly, and has not dissipated. Surely—”

Dua put up her hands. “Let me see,” she said. She placed her hands on Imelwen’s belly.

Imelwen continued, as Dua moved her hands across her belly. “It happened to suddenly—I was speaking of how I wanted a daughter…and how good it would be for our sons to have a little sister—” She let out a cry of pain, as the stabbing pain deep inside her increased.

Dua looked at her in concern, before returning to inspecting Imelwen’s belly. She used some tools—and even sang a few songs. After some time, the midwife straightened.

“I know what is wrong,” she said, a deep frown on her face. “Your child…has a dire doom. If a girl, she will suffer in this world.”

Imelwen sat up straighter, shaking her head. “What shall I do?” she gasped, reaching out and grasped Dua’s hands. “What shall I do? How can I—how can I prevent this suffering?”

“If a daughter, she will suffer greatly at the hands of men,” Dua continued.

Imelwen shook her head harder. “How? How will she suffer?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Through _love_ will she receive the greatest suffering,” Dua said, looking grim. “The love of men will be her doom.”

Imelwen let out a soft cry as the pain returned, her head falling back against the pillows.

“There is little we can do to prevent it,” Dua said. “We cannot play with fate—there is only one outcome to that game.”

“I will protect her,” Imelwen whimpered, her hands rubbing against her belly, trying to ease the pain. “If I have a daughter, I will protect her.”

Dua gazed at her, pity in her eyes, before slowly nodding her head. “You are not in labor yet,” she said. “The pain should subside. I will prescribe an herbal tea for you to take three times daily. Rest, for now,” Dua said, grasping Imelwen’s hand, before leaving.

“I will protect her,” Imelwen whispered to herself. _“I will protect her.”_

* * *

When Princess Lothíriel was born, they say her mother died from grief at the birth of a daughter.

But before she died, the mother had whispered a spell to the little princess. To many, another one of her superstitions. But her noble and Númenórean blood gave power to her words. And they were whispered into the wind.

_“Have no faith in the love of men.”_

* * *

_ **Thanks for reading!** _

_ **Context: This is one of my oldest eothiriel fics I've ever written--and it is near and dear to my heart. Though, warning lol, this might be a frustrating read for anyone who gets annoyed by characters who find it hard to accept that they are loved/worthy of love.** _

_ **Anyway! Thanks for reading!** _   
_ **See you soon!** _


	2. Chapter 1

Lothíriel opened her eyes and sat up with a start. Though the shutters were secured, she could see bright sunlight sneaking in through the cracks. She threw off the many covers, blankets and furs, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She winced as her feet touched the cold fur carpets. There was a fire in the fireplace, and most likely the chamber pot had been exchanged already for a clean, empty one, signifying that the maids had come in sometime while Lothíriel was sleeping. She glanced at the other side of the bed, to see that her husband was gone.

Most likely he took Firefoot for his morning ride. She let out a soft sigh, wishing he had woken her. No doubt her sleeping late was of his own design. He most likely informed the servants not to wake her at the usual time.

He could be surprisingly conscientious, startling her at time with kind of thoughtful gestures. If only in this instance it did not interfere with her duties as queen.

Since Elfleda had not come at her designated time to help her wash and dress, Lothíriel set to the tasks herself. Luckily the dress of the Mark was such that it was relatively easy to dress oneself, unlike the dresses she grew up wearing in Gondor. She scrutinized her appearance in the mirror, one of the many gifts from her father when she wed. She attempted to smooth back her hair, having pulled it into what she hoped was a dignified, straight knot at the back fo her head. It still jutted out in parts. It would have to do. She would have time to make herself presentable before Éomer returned.

She stepped out of the room, nodding her head in acknowledgement to the guard posted there. He bowed, and she quickly headed down the hallway, looking over the railing down at the Hall of Meduseld below. It was nearly empty—with the exception of only a few persons. Hadi, Edoras’ keeper of books, worked in one corner, his breakfast all but forgotten. The maids were washing the floor, which told Lothíriel that breakfast was far gone and done with.

She quickly descended and hurried through the Hall towards the other side, where another hallway led down to the kitchens. The maids quickly paused their work to bow, but Hadi was too engrossed in his work to pay her any mind.

The kitchens were not the bustling, chaotic affair that they usually were before, during, or just after a meal, which confirmed Lothiriel’s suspicions that it was, in actuality, quite late. She resolved to get herself a timepiece so she could better keep track of her day. She had one in Dol Amroth—given to her at great expense—but it had been lost along with some of her things when she had traveled to Edoras for her wedding. She would have to commission it from a craftsman of Gondor, for the people of the Mark rarely used clocks or timepieces, preferring to let nature tell them the times of day. Only a few staff in Meduseld, as well as a few nobles, used them.

The kitchens were large, with few windows except on the North side, where a large door let out into a courtyard. It was situated below the first floor of Meduseld, lower down in the hill, and a path led from the courtyard to the stables. The kitchens themselves were usually quite dark, if not for the many cooking hearths and stone ovens. In the middle of the large room, there were long tables for the staff to do their work, two in total. There was a small room for the housekeeper to live in, as well as a table in a corner for her to do her bookkeeping. Further into the hill, underneath Meduseld, was expansive storerooms, fuller now than they had been in quite some time, thanks to the money and supplies that were part of Lothíriel’s dowry.

A tall, broad shouldered woman strode up to her. Her features were sharpened with age, and her hair was tied back into a braided knot. Her blue eyes were calculating and as intense as ever, her clothes pristine and orderly, not a crease to be seen. Cynaburga, Meduseld’s housekeeper, stopped before her. “Did you sleep well, My Lady?”

Lothíriel felt her face heat with embarrassment, wishing fervently that she did not have a habit of sleeping so deeply and soundly, despite the fact that there was little conceivable judgement in the older woman’s tone and unreadable expression. “I did, Cynaburga,” Lothíriel finally answered, her voice calm and reserved. “Has the morning meal finished? And has the king already left for his morning ride?”

“Breakfast has finished, my Lady, and the King has left to visit Aldburg. He has informed me to tell you he will return in a fortnight.”

Lothíriel felt the color drain from her cheeks. _Aldburg. Two weeks’ time._ She took in a deep breath, trying to settle her nerves. For a moment, she turned her head slightly away from Cynaburga, trying to regain the control of the emotions within her.

She had been married to her husband for barely one month. She had hoped to visit his birthplace with him—but duties and time had not been forgiving, and the winter was hard. But she had set her hopes on visiting with him at this time. A fortnight would bring him back at at the end of _Víressë, _quite a few days _after_ the anniversary of his mother’s death. That he had snuck out with her waking—indeed, had seemed to go to lengths to prevent it, spoke only that he had not wanted her there with him.

She steadied her breathing, forcing her face to remain passive and emotionless, lest Cynaburga be aware of inner conflict.

No matter.

Her marriage to Eomer was yet young. She had time.

Their marriage would no doubt be a loveless one, but she hoped he would grow to trust her. If she was to rule by his side to the end of their days, he would need to trust her.

She turned to face Cynaburga again, all traces of disappointment gone from her face. “And the morning duties?”

“I will send the maids to finish their tasks in your chambers, but most of the morning cleanings are done, my Lady. The laundry has yet to be finished.”

Lothíriel nodded. “I would like to look over the plans for the mid-day and evening meals—and then I would like to see the books again.”

“Yes, my Lady,” Cynaburga nodded, motioning for her to walk to the neat table in the corner of the large kitchen, where her books were kept. “I have prepared your breakfast for you, would you like it here or in the Hall?”

“Here is fine, thank you,” Lothíriel replied. “I will eat after we go over the books and meal plans.”

It was some time before they were finished, and Lothíriel’s stomach was growling and aching by the time she sat down at one of the tables and began her meal. It was then that Elfleda appeared, sitting down in front of her.

“Did you sleep well, milady?” she asked, grinning at Lothíriel. The gap between her front teeth and her always wild plait of hair made her look years younger than her nineteen summers.

“I did,” Lothíriel answered. “Though I wonder why you did not wake me.”

Elfleda’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “The king instructed me that you wished to rest this morning,” she said. “I assumed…”

_Ah. _The verdict was clear. She wondered briefly if she had done something to displease her new husband. She wracked her mind for what offense she might have inflicted upon him. Some Rohirric taboo she had not studied that she might have unknowingly committed. If only she felt the freedom to ask him outright what she might have done wrong—why he would go to lengths to shut her out at such an important time.

Lothíriel took another sip of the stew, eating slowly so as to envelop herself in her thoughts. Aldburg was his home, before he became King of the Mark. Perhaps he was visiting, not only his birthplace and his parent’s resting place, but for another reason as well. Perhaps he was visiting an old lover, and would rather have her comfort than Lothíriel’s.

The thought caused a rush of worry in her. Did he _have_ lovers? Their marriage had been one of convenience. An arranged match for the good of both Gondor and Rohan. They did not love each other, and hardly even knew each other. She did not doubt he had countless lovers before her—if he were like any other man she knew, or at least, the way men seemed to boast. She did not know why this last month she had presumed that he would have stopped association with them now that he was married. Married to a woman he neither knew nor loved.

She glanced at Elfleda, who was studying her nails, and wondered if she dared to ask her if the king had any known women he consorted with in Aldburg. But she knew that was risky—someone might overhear. Elfleda might accidentally let slip to the wrong person that the queen was acquiring such an inappropriate question.

No, it was better not to ask.

She did not have dominion over her husband. It was not her business what he did when away from their marriage bed.

Another wave of anxiety washed over her, biting at the corners of her mind. What if she could not conceive before another woman? What if his firstborn was not hers? Her father and Elessar would be bitterly disappointed in her. The union between she and her husband would be for naught, save only that her dowry saved Rohan from ruin.

She found that her appetite was gone, so she gently pushed the tray away from her, sighing.

“Was it not to your tastes?” Elfleda asked, gazing at the tray of food, before looking at Lothíriel in curiosity.

“No, I just… am not that hungry,” Lothíriel replied. “If you will, Elfleda, come to my chambers with me, I need to make myself look presentable.”

“Of course, My Lady,” Elfleda said hurriedly, getting up and following Lothíriel from the kitchens. “Would you like to go for a ride today? I can send word to Lady Rhuthwyn.”

“I would like a ride, I think,” Lothíriel replied. “This afternoon, perhaps. Beathra will need exercising. For now, I would like to work in the Solar.”

“Very well, My Lady,” Elfleda said. They arrived at the royal chambers, and Lothíriel entered, while Elfleda instructed one of the guards to fetch an errand boy to send word to the other ladies of Edoras. After a moment, Elfleda quickly entered the room.

Lothíriel was in the middle of undoing her bun, letting her hair fall down her back. She sat at a vanity table, and Elfeda picked up the brush and began to work it through her hair. She heard the girl sigh dreamily. “You have such lovely hair, My Lady,” she said. “So dark and thick and soft. You really should wear it down sometime. It would be so becoming.”

Lothíriel nearly snorted. Wear her hair down? Now there was a preposterous idea. In Gondor, women usually wore their hair up off their neck, some times even wrapped in cloth. The common women of Rohan often wore their hair in braids or loose knots, but those of noble birth, who did not need to work a livelihood or dirty their hands, often wore their hair loose down their backs, with only parts braided decoratively. “I doubt anyone would like that very much,” Lothíriel finally said.

“Éomer King would, I think,” Elfleda said.

Lothíriel frowned, wondering if this was true. She wondered if any woman he slept with wore their hair down. Perhaps she _should_ try it and see if it would better his opinions of her.

Once her hair was finished, Lothíriel set to applying the paint and cosmetics on her face. Elfelda watched with curiosity. Lothíriel peered at her through the corner of her eyes. “Would you like to try some, Elfleda?”

Elfleda’s eyes widened and she blushed furiously. “No,” she shook her head vigorously. “I couldn’t, Milady.”

“Of course you could,” Lothíriel got up from the seat, and motioned for Elfleda to sit down. Face burning from the attention, the girl did as she instructed. Lothíriel knelt down and began to apply the pain to the girl’s face. First some color to the cheeks, the eyelids, and the lips. Then she added some khol to the girl’s eyes.

Elfleda looked in the small mirror, admiring her appearance, a soft smile on her lips.

“The colors, I’m afraid, do not quite suite you,” Lothíriel said, standing. “My skin is darker than yours, but I can order you some colors that will match you better—”

“Oh no, Milady,” Elfleda said, quickly standing. “I couldn’t impose on you in such a way. But… thank you. The ladies should be in the Solar by now, I believe.”

“Of course,” Lothíriel nodded. “I will head there now. Please choose my evening dress for me and have it pressed.”

“Of course, Milady,” Elfleda said.

“And perhaps,” Lothíriel said, as she paused on her way to the door, “You should stop by the stables and check on Beathra for me.” She then gave a wink, and hurried out, leaving a blushing and stuttering Elfleda behind her.

The Solar was situated on the first floor of Meduseld. It was large, and was exclusively used by the queen. In fact, Lothíriel quickly realized that men were, if not forbidden, largely discouraged from entering. It was considered a sacred place, for women to talk and do their magic.

‘Magic’ being the arts of weaving and such. Which was what Lothíriel was doing, and in her own opinion, failing at in the moment.

“You _are_ improving,” Lady Hild said, glancing over Lothíriel’s shoulder at the work on the loom. “Slowly, but surely.”

“You’re a quick learner,” Lady Hild’s mother, an elderly woman by the name of Lady Fraeth. “When you first arrived you had not a whit of skill in it. You did not know the difference between a shuttle and the treadles. Now look at you.”

“I daresay, I am still confused about some parts,” Lothíriel said, smiling at them. “But I am glad you have confidence in me.” She turned to look back at her work. It was not the battlefields and horses and grand designs that the others were capable of, but she was confident she would gather enough skill to create such masterpieces soon. It may take her a few years.

The art of story though weaving or embroidery was essential to the Rohirric culture. The people of the Mark rarely kept books, in fact, many of them could not read or write. But they told stories endlessly, tirelessly, and exuberantly, orally and, by the woman, through textiles.

Lothíriel was well versed in the art of embroidery, but she had never been allowed to touch a loom in her life. In Gondor that was servants work, or tradesmen work, not the work for a princess. Now that she was queen of the mark it was expected that she be as well versed in weaving as she was in anything else. Traditionally, she was expected to weave and embroider a tapestry during the first year of her marriage to her husband, expressing her devotion and love to him, and showing all the happy times they spent together.

That, along with a child, were two things that were expected of her.

The tapestry would most likely take more than a year, for she was still a learner and the going was slow, for she wanted it done well. None faulted her for this. But she knew that the child would have to come before the year was out—or at least conceived. When tutors had come to Dol Amroth to teach her the language and the customs of the Mark, they had explicitly told her that should she _not_ conceive a child, Éomer would have cause to divorce her so as to marry another. In fact he would be expected to.

She was not sure if he _would_ divorce her. He was good friends with her father, and might not want to insult him by sending his daughter back in disgrace. Not only that, but her dowry had saved Rohan from descending quickly into ruin after the war, and there was more of it to come, so he would be a fool to divorce her before her dowry had finished being paid out.

No, most likely, if she could not conceive a child, he would look elsewhere for such matters, and keep her as his wife and queen all the same.

The women in the Solar jumped in surprise when the stamped down the treadles too hard, and the beater clacked loud and ringing in the room.

“Easy, my Queen,” Lady Rhuthwyn said. “You might break the loom if you work it that hard.”

Lothíriel’s face burned. “I apologize,” she said quickly. “I had a moment of… thoughtlessness.”

“No need to apologize,” Lady Hild said. “Weaving is wonderful for getting nasty thoughts out. But I’d be careful not to do it when weaving your Marriage Dosser. Don’t want any nasty feelings getting woven into the threads. Bad luck.”

Lothíriel gave a nod, if only the humor the women, and returned to her work. It was no matter. Her husband spent every night in Edoras with her. She would conceive a child soon, no doubt. There was nothing to fear.

* * *

The fortnight until Éomer’s return went by at a grueling pace. Lothíriel kept herself busy—overseeing Meduseld and Edoras, as well as hosting a feast of mourning on the day Éomer’s mother had passed.

She met him at the top of the steps leading into the Hall of Meduseld, holding a cup of Meade for him to drink. He was dirty with dust and sweat from the ride from Aldburg, and when he stepped up to her, she was reminded not for the first time just how much taller than her he was. She offered him the cup, and he took it, drinking it thankfully and with little ceremony, before placing it on the tray that Cynaburga held. He then kissed her hand, and held her hand a few moments longer than he was required to. Lothíriel’s stomach fluttered. “A bath,” he said, letting go of her hand. “And then dinner, if it is ready.”

“It will be when you are done with your bath,” Lothíriel replied. “I am afraid the bath is not quite finished—the servants started when you were first spotted approaching.”

Éomer nodded, and she followed him inside.

“How faired Aldburg?” she ventured, as she walked beside him to their chambers.

“Good,” was his rather short reply. Though his tone was not unkind, she felt stung at its dismissiveness. He did not want to talk about it.

No matter.

They had time.

They entered their chambers, and Éomer disappeared into the small room between his dressing room and their bedroom, where the water basin and toilet were. She hesitated, wondering if she should follow him in. The ladies she spent her days with often informed her that it was commonplace, nay, _expected,_ for the wife to wash her husband’s hair while he bathed.

_Sensual,_ Lady Fraeth had claimed. _Furthers the bond between husband and wife._

She walked up to the door, reaching for the handle, wondering if she dared open it and enter. Finally, she gave a short knock, and spoke through the door, “I will look into your supper,” before quickly escaping to the kitchens.

Supper was set out for him and his men when he entered the Hall, and she sat beside him while he ate, though she had long since eaten her own supper. He spoke not a word of Aldburg and his time there, save only that the township seemed to be faring well, which pleased him.

_No matter. They had time._

That night she shivered in his arms, wondering if he kissed other women like he did her. If he touched another woman the way he touched her. It was foolish, she told herself. It was not her place. He was a king. A man. He owed her nothing.

As she lay awake, listening to his gentle breathing as he slept, she hoped, as she hoped every night, that she would bear him a son. That she would finally be put to use—to fulfill the only true purpose she was born to fulfill. Perhaps then her father would be proud of her. And she would be worthy of her role as a queen.

She rolled over, closing her eyes, and willing herself to fall asleep. Such things would happen if they were meant to.

* * *

A week later, she woke in the early morning with a dull pain in her lower abdomen, and felt the bitter stab of disappointment.

She glanced at Éomer, sleeping beside her, before slipping out of bed, examining the sheets. She had woken up before the flow had truly started, so thankfully the servants would not need to wash the sheets before the usual time. She quickly opened a drawer in her dresser, and took out a sanitary cloth. When she was finished, she crawled back into bed.

Éomer stirred, flinching for a moment, as he woke from the movement, but seemed to relax when he realized it was her, and not an enemy. “Why are you up?” he mumbled groggily.

She gazed at him, a hand over her stomach, massaging to try to ease the pain. She wondered how she should answer. Perhaps it would be better to leave and sleep in his private dressing chamber, where he had a separate, smaller bed. No Gondorian man would even _consider_ sleeping in the same bed as their wife during her monthlies.

“It’s…” she began, unsure of how to answer in a tactful way that would not disgust him.

It was disappointing, that they had not beget a child. And she could not help but feel a heavy coating of shame. It was still early, she reminded herself. They were wed barely two months now. “My monthlies,” she said, finally, deciding not to beat around the bush. The Rohirrim valued honesty, after all.

He did not answer, nor did he look at her. His eyes were still closed, and for a moment, she wondered if he had fallen asleep again.

“Do you want me to sleep in the dressing room?” she asked him.

He opened his eyes at this, looking at her with a peculiar expression. “Why?”

“Because…” She changed tactics, “In Gondor, it is often unseemly for a husband to sleep in the same bed as his wife during—”

He snorted, looking sleepily amused. “We’re not in Gondor.”

She blinked, unsure of how to answer.

“If you are uncomfortable sleeping here, you can go. But do not on my account,” he continued. He turned away from her, falling silent.

She stared at his broad, muscled back. She wanted to reach out and touch his skin—wondering if it were hot or cold. She wanted him to envelop her in his arms—but he never touched her except for the time they spent every night in hopes of creating an heir.

And besides, whether it was customary in Rohan for a husband and wife to sleep in the same bed during the wife’s monthlies, she doubted it was encouraged to copulate during that time.

She closed her eyes, and fell back asleep.

* * *

The next four days passed slowly for Lothíriel. Every night she had strange and horrifying dreams of being cast out of Edoras, a bastard son and his mother taking her place. When her monthlies finally finished, she and Éomer resumed their nightly attempts, and she resumed hoping each night that she would bear him a son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued…
> 
> Some notes: If Éomer seems a little distant towards her, it’s partly because of a sad/bitter time of the year, and partly because he doesn’t know her well. They’ve only been married for about two months, with barely knowing each other prior, and so love and affection hasn’t had too much time to develop, since they are both busy with roles they were not exactly intending to fill (Éomer being king, Lothíriel being the queen of Rohan). Plus I too would be a little grumpy if I was woken in the middle of the night.
> 
> Also, whether or not Éomer is actually having affairs is pure speculation on Lothiriel’s part, but the truth will be revealed eventually.
> 
> Tip/Warning: If you get annoyed by people who have a difficult time accepting their own value and believing they are worthy/capable of receiving love and affection, this might not be the story for you. Also, this story has some depictions/mentions of violence. If this is triggering for you, please read with caution.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Let me know if you're interested in reading more! :D


	3. Chapter 2

The room fell silent, the chatter of the women ebbing away as the door opened. Lothíriel turned in her seat to see what had caused the merriment to come to such a sudden end and saw Éomer standing in the doorway. He did not enter as custom required him to stay behind the threshold. She quickly stood and joined him in the hall, closing the door behind her.

“Is something the matter, My Lord?”

He smiled at her. “I thought you and I could go for a ride—Firefoot needs exercising, and I must say I could use an excuse not to be bombarded by councilmen.”

“Do you not have any guards or those of your éored to accompany you?” she asked, surprised that he should seek her out for company.

He blinked, looking a little disappointed. “If you would rather stay in the solar—”

“No,” she quickly shook her head, smiling, “I would love to accompany you. Let me change, and I will meet you at the stables in half an hour.”

He paused for a moment, and she wondered if he had changed his mind about her accompanying him. Then he nodded and turned, heading down the hall.

Lothíriel stuck her head back into the solar, instructing Elfleda to hurry to her chambers. As her handmaiden helped her change into her riding clothes, the girl chatted amicably. Elfleda seemed to be able to talk about anything, anywhere, for any amount of time, though Lothíriel hardly minded—it was nice to have conversation, and casual conversation at that. That seemed often to be the case among the peoples of Rohan—they were a loud and honest and personable people.

It wasn’t that they were simpler than the people of Gondor…it was more that it was easier to be oneself around them. It was certainly refreshing, if at times alarming, compared to the Court of Gondor.

“You look so lovely—” Elfleda said as she finished her work, “Though I do not see why you need special clothing for riding,” she added, stepping back to observe their work.

“Well,” Lothíriel said, shrugging and smiling wryly, “In Gondor—”

“In Gondor, _in Gondor,”_ Elfleda said, rolling her eyes. She then blushed deeply, almost causing her infinite number of freckles to blend in with her skin, and mumbled, “Forgive me, my Lady…”

“It is no matter,” Lothíriel smiled. “It’s a silly custom. Nearly as silly as riding side saddle—though his Lordship put an end to that quite quickly, didn’t he? Perhaps soon I’ll be able to wear men’s clothes or a normal dress when I ride.”

“Yes, Milady,” Elfleda said. “But you should hurry to the stables—you don’t want to be late, though I daresay the king would forgive you,” she added.

“I don’t want to risk it,” Lothíriel said, startled when she realized that the time had gone by quite quickly. She jumped for the door and pulled it open, Elfleda following her out into the hall. “I don’t want to make any original impressions worse after all,” Lothíriel continued casually, voicing the thoughts she had not dared utter since her arrival.

Elfleda turned to give her a curious look—almost as if she did not quite hear her words. Upon further inspection, she almost looked as if she could not _understand_ her words. For a moment, Lothíriel wondered if she had accidentally slipped into Common, or Sindarin, but remembered that Elfleda spoke Common fluently and knew enough Gondorian Sindarin to get by in conversation, hence why she was chosen to be Lothiriel’s handmaiden. Lothíriel returned her look with a confused smile before they reached the doors that led out of the Hall

“I will be back soon,” Lothíriel told the maid. “Please tell Cynaburga to prepare a small meal for our return.”

Elfleda did not reply straight away, but quickly gathered herself and nodded, watching as Lothíriel left the hall and stepped out into the brisk spring air. It was still early in the year, though no snow was on the ground, and the planting only just beginning. But the winds were strong over the plains of Rohan, and the cold air biting. She quickly descended down the steps, a guard leaving his post at the doors to escort her to the stables.

When she reached them, Firefoot was saddled and Éomer was by the horse’s side. Beathra, her mare, was also saddled and ready. Ten riders of Éomer’s personal escort were waiting as well.

“I apologize for the delay, my lord,” she said, slightly out of breath, pausing to curtsy to him, before heading to Beathra. She quickly got into the saddle, giving the mare a small rub on the neck. Baethra had been a gift from Éomer at their wedding. It was customary for the king or prince of the Mark to gift his bride with a mare of Meara ancestry. But while the plethora of horses and land she had been gifted as queen was hers by right, Beathra was different. Beathra was a companion, not property.

Éomer, now in Firefoot’s saddle, glanced over his shoulder and gave a nod to the escort behind them.

“Shall we?” he asked, and Lothíriel nodded. They set off, heading down the winding path to the gates of Edoras.

Some inhabitants of the city came out to watch them go by. Lothíriel felt as though she withered under their gaze. What they thought of her, she dared not to think. She knew that Queen Morwen had not been particularly popular, especially in memory, and she could only imagine what they thought of her. She took a moment to gather and reform her thoughts lest they pull her mood down to something less savory.

She knew, from snippets of gossip she overheard, that many Lords of the Mark had hoped for one of their own daughters to marry Éomer. And many most likely wished one of Eorl’s descendants would have taken the position of queen. She could only imagine their disappointment that Éomer had agreed to marry her, a stranger and foreigner.

Soon they passed through the gates of Edoras. Silence fell on the riding party as they passed through the burial mounds outside the gates. They broke into a trot, then a canter, once they had left the many burial mounds behind.

They rode for almost a quarter of a mile, and Lothíriel relished the wind in her face—thankful that she always wore her hair in a braid or in a knot on her head—and feeling a freedom that she rarely felt otherwise. They quickly slowed to a trot, so as not to tire the horses, and rode in relative silence for some time.

Though the landscape was of stark difference than that of Belfalas, she had grown to love the plains and hills these past four months. She rarely got a chance to ride, busy as she was with her duties in Meduseld, but when she did go out with Beathra, she treasured it.

After some time, she wished to stretch her legs, so they slowed to a halt and she dismounted, stretching and walking forward through the grass. Beathra did not stray, nor did she need her reins to be held. Even so, Lothíriel always got the impression that the horse merely tolerated the reins, and if Lothíriel had been a better rider, reins might not have been even be necessary. Beathra, for her part, stayed nearby, grazing and keep a watchful eye on her rider.

With a start, Lothíriel realized that Éomer was at her side, gazing out across the plains and tall grass to the east.

“I was thinking,” Lothíriel said, following his gaze, “That I might see Aldburg soon.”

He turned to look at her in surprise.

“It was your birthplace…and your home,” she continued, feeling the need to explain herself. “And it is part of the Mark. This is my home now, I should know it well.”

He nodded slowly, looking back towards the east.

She wondered what was on his mind. Was it hesitation she sensed in him, or was she merely imagining things? She suddenly wanted to ask—if there were other women, if she alone did not satisfy him. It would not make a difference. If there were other women, she could not demand him to stop. But she wanted to _know_. To have peace of mind.

She found she did not have the courage to ask such a question. Nor, she rationalized, did she had the audacity or right to ask in the first place, let alone in front of his riders.

“Perhaps next month,” he said. “I will be meeting with Elfhelm there to go over matters of the Eastfold. You may come if you like.”

She fought to keep the smile off her face. “I would,” she said.

He smiled at her, and her stomach flipped slightly at the sight of it. He rarely smiled, though he did more and more as time passed and the pain of war ebbed away and the joys of peace replaced it. But he rarely smiled at _her,_ and not usually with one that seemed to almost mirror affection. She allowed herself to return the smile.

“Oh!” she gave out a long, pleased sigh, opening her arms and feeling the wind tug at the fabric of her sleeves. “This wind reminds me of the sea.”

“It does?” he seemed amused and bewildered, at the notion.

“You’ve never seen the sea, so you wouldn’t know,” Lothíriel told him, turning in a slow circle. “The way the wind moves over the grass reminds me of the waves.”

She broke into a sudden run—heading in the direction of the wind, laughing to herself. She looked over her shoulder to see Éomer following at a slower pace, a smile on his face as he laughed at her antics.

With a yelp, she suddenly found herself on the ground. She was almost hidden by the tall grass, still yellowed by winter her knees and hands stinging from their contact with the ground, her cheek flush against the earth. Surprised, she pushed herself from the ground. She must have tripped on a root or rock. She felt her cheeks burn with humiliation. Éomer and his escort had not only seen her do something incredibly childish, but had watched her fall on her own face while doing it.

Perhaps falling had been punishment for acting unqueenly.

She heard laughter and looked up to see Éomer appear at her side. She could not help but glare at him, as he calmed his laughter down to a deep chuckle and offered her a hand. She placed her gloved one in his, and he pulled her to her feet, and proceeded to brush the dirt off her clothes. His hands lingered over her chest and hips, and she could feel the heat from her face as she blushed.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his eyes twinkling, as he wiped dirt off her cheek. He was standing close to her, a hand now on her waist, gazing down at her with an amused expression.

“My pride is hurt, nothing else, my lord,” she answered.

He shook his head, starting to chuckle again, and let go of her waist, turning to head back to their horses. Beathra was heading towards them, neighing, and when Lothíriel and she met halfway, the mare snorted all over her, inspecting her body for any signs of distress or hurt.

“_I’m alright, girl,”_ Lothíriel murmured quietly in elvish, before getting back into the saddle.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” Éomer asked, amusement gone and concern in his voice. “You’re limping.”

“The fall was harder than I thought,” she answered. “My joints and limbs are jarred, is all.”

Jarring it had been, but the source of her limp was a sharp rock that had been in the way of her left knee. She lifted the skirt of her riding dress slightly, and saw that the knee of the wool stockings was wet and dark with blood. She quickly covered the knee with her skirt, hoping to hide it from Éomer. It would not do for him to think her more weak and ridiculous than she already made herself out to be.

The ride back was painful, and Beathra, seeming to sense her rider’s discomfort, performed an easy gate to lessen the bumps and jolts. They reached the stables, and Lothíriel spoke softly to Baethra before the mare was led away by the stable boys for a meal and rub down.

As she and Éomer walked back towards Meduseld, he looked down at her in concern. “You still limp,” he said.

“It is fine,” she said earnestly. “I am unfortunately not like your hardy Eorlinga women, it takes some time for me to recover from…such a fall.”

He seemed not to know if she were joking or not, and she did not feel the need to confirm that she was. They made it up the steps and at the door, when Cerdic, one of his advisors, informed him that a council meeting had been called for. Lothíriel quickly slipped out of the Hall, so as to not disturb them, and made her way to their chambers.

Elfleda was nowhere to be seen, which Lothíriel did not mind. It was best to survey the damage without someone around who could blab about the proof of her humiliation. No doubt the guards that accompanied them were already recounting the tale of how the Gondorian queen fell flat on her face.

She felt her cheeks burn again at the thought of all of Edoras knowing of her clumsiness.

She undressed herself until she wore only a shift, and slowly removed the stockings. She let out a soft gasp at the sight of her knee.

It was no wonder that she limped. A large gash cut across the knee. Blood covered her knee and most of the surrounding area. No wonder she had begun to feel faint. Now the sight of the blood nearly made her swoon. She looked around to see what could help her, before limping to the washstand, trying to blot away the blood. But whatever she wiped away was replaced, and she quickly realized it was no use. She wrapped one of the cloths around her knee tightly, when Elfleda opened the door and stepped in.

“I’m so sorry, Milady,” she said. “I was talking with—” the girl stopped short when she took in Lothiriel’s appearance. Elfleda’s eyes widened. She turned and grabbed the door, opening it quickly.

“Wait!” Lothíriel said, but Elfleda was quickly speaking to one of the guards, who left quickly.

Lothíriel suppressed a groan, as Elfleda hurried back into the room. “Are you in pain?” she asked, a panicked look on her face. “Does it hurt badly? Can you move your leg?”

“My leg is fine,” Lothíriel protested.

Elfleda knelt and quickly tightened the cloth around Lothíriel’s knee. “Is it cut deep? You may need sutures…”

“Well, you might be right about that, actually,” Lothíriel admitted, “But I do not think it is very bad.”

“Sit down, milday,” Elfleda ordered, nearly pushing Lothíriel into a seat. Then she grabbed the leg and placed Lothíriel’s dressing table’s chair under the foot. “Keep it up,” she said.

Elfleda looked pale, pacing the room, until Cynaburga came in with a woman that Lothíriel recognized as a local healer in Edoras. Cynaburga took in a sharp breath.

“You should have sent for someone straight away, Milady,” she said brusquely, as the healer came forward and untied the cloth.

“I did not wish to bother anyone,” Lothíriel explained weakly, watching as the three women began to wash away the blood. The healer put a nasty smelling ointment on the wound that seemed to melt on contact with Lothiriel’s skin and then began to thread a needle.

Cynaburga and Elfleda came forward, each offering Lothíriel a hand.

“It will sting,” the healer informed her. Elwyn, Lothíriel realized. Her name is Elwyn.

Lothíriel squeezed the hands of the two women on either side of her, until finally the wound was closed. The wound was washed anew, then wrapped in a fresh cloth.

“It will still bleed for a little while, but it should be fine,” Elwyn said, rising. “It is not as bad as it looked. Tell Elfleda if you experience any discomfort, and I will come straightaway. I will come back tomorrow morning to check on it.” Lothíriel nodded faintly.

“And next time, don’t delay in getting it seen to,” Elwyn said, sounding slightly exasperated. She turned and left, carrying her basket of supplies with her. Cynaurga let out a long breath.

There was a long silence. Lothíriel could feel her face burning with humiliation. At this point, she wasn’t even sure which humiliating events of the day she should be focusing on.

“Who knows about this?” Lothíriel asked suddenly.

“Who knows? Me, Elwyn, ‘Leda, and Neadda the guard…I believe that may be all,” Cynaburga said.

“Can you speak to the guard and tell him not to tell anyone?” Lothíriel asked.

Cynaburga looked surprised at this, before nodding. “I’ll tell him before before I inform the king of this matter,” she answered.

“No!”

Cynaburga and Elfleda looked at her in surprise, both somewhat startled by her panicked outburst.

“I would rather the king not know about this,” she said, not looking at them while gripping the skirt of her dress tightly, trying to control her eyes to keep them from stinging with tears.

“He will find out anyway,” Cynaburga pointed out, looking bewildered at her request.

Lothíriel’s face seemed to burn hotter, as she remembered how he laughed in amusement at her fall. He would think her a silly and frail thing if he saw how she had been injured so easily.

“I would rather he not know for as long as possible,” she murmured, looking down at her hands. “And I do not wish to bother him about this.”

Cynaburga huffed for a moment, “His wife was injured—I daresay he could spare some time to think about it. But if you insist, I will wait to tell him until you are ready. But he’ll find out eventually. You share a _bed_ after all.”

The old woman left the room, and Lothíriel was left with Elfleda. “Will you help me dress into something that is not bloody?” Lothíriel asked, rising from her chair.

“Can you walk?” Elfleda asked, glancing down at Lothíriel’s knee.

“Yes,” Lothíriel answered, reassuringly. “Elwyn was right, it’s not as bad as it looked.”

“It needed sutures,” Elfleda said stubbornly.

“I’ll be fine,” Lothíriel assured her. “I need to finish my duties for the day—and oversee the evening meal.”

Elfleda sighed before helping her dress.

“Why don’t you want to tell his lordship about this?” Elfleda asked as Lothíriel reached the door. Lothíriel turned to look at her, surprised. “That you were injured?” Elfleda clarified.

“I don’t want to bother him,” Lothíriel said, surprised that Elfleda should not have realized the reason sooner. “He’s very busy.”

“Why would such a thing bother him, save only that his wife was hurt?” Elfleda asked.

Lothíriel sighed, before shutting the door, taking a step towards the center of the room. “The king and I have an unusual marriage in comparison to the customs of the Mark. Your people usually marry for love, do you not?”

Elfleda nodded.

“In Gondor,’ Lothíriel continued. “Those of my station generally do _not_ marry for love. And that was the case with me and Éomer King. He needed my dowry, and to strengthen the alliances with Gondor. That was the only reason we married.” She paused, before deciding to continue. “He does not love me—and I do not presume he would be much interested in my day to day life.”

Elfleda looked at her with a saddened expression.

Of course, these last four months had changed things. She found herself attracted to Éomer, and more than just to his appearance. She enjoyed their nights together, the only times he would touch her, save today when he brushed the dirt off her. She also enjoyed his company. A few more months and she knew she would fall in love with him.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, breaking the silence, smiling at Elfleda. “I must go. I will join the ladies in the solar.”

Elfleda curtsied, an uncharacteristically formal act for her to do, and Lothíriel left her chambers, heading towards the Solar. The stairs at the other end of the hall, which led down to the hall below without having to walk through the Great Hall, were difficult to get down, but she managed to make it to the Solar without too much difficulty. Just before she reached the door, where she could hear soft, female voices drifting through, a voice called out her name.

She turned to see Éomer striding up to her. She smiled, curtsied, and winced as the act strained her knee.

“Are you alright?” he asked, looking her up and down in concern, his hands outstretched slightly as if in an attempt to hold her steady. “I saw Elwyn leave during the council meeting. And I see that you still limp.”

“I am fine, My Lord,” she assured him. “It is nothing to worry about. I…I merely twisted my knee a little. I don’t know why Cynaburga fetched Elwyn. There was truly no need.”

His brows furrowed, and she knew he did not believe her. Éomer knew the hearts of Men, she remembered Elessar telling her. _Be honest with him._

“Is your meeting over?” she asked politely, in an attempt to change the subject.

“It goes on still,” he answered. “I made an excuse to leave as soon as there was a chance.”

“Why?” she asked, startled. Quickly, she went over possible reasons why he might have left the meeting early. Was he ill? Did he receive terrible news? Already her mind worked to create solutions. She would send for Cynaburga to make some tea—or perhaps even a cup of what was left of her supply of xhoco She would attempt to keep him in their chambers, alone with no lights save a fire, for him to rest in peace and quiet.

He seemed just as started by her question as she had been by his. “I wanted to make sure you were alright,” he said, after a moment’s pause.

She stared up at him, her mouth falling open slightly. She felt horrified, and then guilty, that he felt the need to slip away from his duties on her account.

“I am fine, My Lord,” she assured him, after shutting her open mouth with a painful snap. “I assure you, I am fine. You may return to your meeting.”

He nodded slowly, about to turn away, when he turned back to look at her, studying her closely.

“And please,” she said urgently, “Do not worry yourself on my account. Not now, and…well, there’s no need for you to fuss.”

He frowned, looking as though he wanted to contradict her. He turned away and took a step, before turning back to look at her. “You are my wife, and my queen,” he told her. “If anything happens to you, it is my duty to know about it.”

She met his gaze with a smile, and he returned it reluctantly before heading down the hall towards the Great Hall. She let out a sigh of relief when he disappeared from view. She quickly entered the Solar, which was now quiet.

“Oh,” she said, when she noticed that the eyes of every woman inside was on her. She quickly went to her loom and sat down.

“Your leg,” Lady Freath said, “What happened to it?”

“I fell and twisted it,” Lothíriel answered, her tone a bit shorter than she had intended. “It is nothing.”

She glanced hesitantly out of the corners of her eyes, and saw that Lady Freath looked reluctant to believe her.

“Well,” Lady Hild said. “You are coming along nicely with your tapestry. I daresay you will match any woman in the Mark soon.”

“Éowyn had not any skill in this,” Lady Fraeth said. “She was a dreamer—and when she was too old to dream, she was changed. The war changed her—Wormtongue changed her. Prince Theodred’s death…and Theoden King’s descent into decay changed her, before Gandalf was able to bring him back to the light. She never had the heart for things such as this.”

A solemn silence fell over the small group, before Lady Hild spoke. “It is different now. Éowyn is happily married in Gondor. And from her letters, she is quite happy.”

The women in the room nodded their agreement. Lothíriel looked back at the tapestry on her loom, wondering if she would ever have what Éowyn and Faramir had. A happy and love-filled marriage.

She wondered if she should write to Éowyn—for the two had not corresponded yet, and Lothíriel knew that a way to discover more about Éomer would perhaps be through his sister. She resolved to write Éowyn the next day, and send it out with the next couriers to Gondor.

While some of the ladies continued on to their own homes, some stayed for the evening meal. Cynaburga gave her a hard look as she entered, taking in her limp. The council meeting had only just let out, and many of the members had stayed as well. She slid into the seat beside Éomer at the dais.

“Are you alright?” he asked, looking at her in concern.

“I told you,” she assured him, feeling slightly annoyed that he was not letting it go, “I am fine. Do not worry after me, please. How was the council meeting?”

“Good,” he said. “Boring as always. I wish you would have let me stay away.”

“Well, next time I will not send you back then.”

He gave her a smile, and after a moment, she realized it was bordering on flirtatious. She suddenly realized his thoughts and felt the heat rush to her cheeks. She should not be surprised, she chastised herself. The king had proven himself over their three months of marriage to have quite an appetite for sex. She wondered if she was enough to satisfy him, or if he did take other lovers, and she was just too blind and ignorant to notice.

After the evening meal she rose to leave, and Éomer followed her out. One of his riders whistled, and she felt herself blushing again. She had not gotten used to the Eorlingas being so inclined towards thinking their liege and his wife consummated often. It was true, she admitted, but that it was so clearly on the forefront of their minds embarrassed her thoroughly.

Especially since they had yet to beget a child.

They separated once they entered the bedroom, Éomer heading to his dressing room. She quickly dressed in a nightdress, thankful it covered her knees, and slid into bed, taking out a book. Of this, she was thankful to be born noble. Her father could afford to have volumes transcribed for her, buying her whatever book she wished to read. She had brought many of them with her, to the bewilderment and amusement of the Rohirrim.

Though the nobles of Rohan were literate, many of the commoners were not, and most, noble or not, did not quite understand her intent interest in reading. They preferred to _tell_ their stories, both myths and history, by mouth, or on the walls of their grand houses and halls in the shape of intricate tapestries. They did not see much use in parchment and binding for the sake of storytelling.

A little while later, Éomer stepped into the room. She glanced up to see him begin to undress, and she quickly averted her eyes. She focused on the page before her, hoping he did not catch her watching him.

“I am sending a letter to Éowyn tomorrow,” he informed her, when he had finished. “If you wish to send something for your father, I can have it sent as well.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, as he blew out the candles around the room, leaving the fire in the fireplace be and the candles by the bed still lit. He slid in beside her. “I think I shall write to Éowyn as well,” she said.

“Oh?” this seemed to please him, and the notion caused a flurry of excitement and relief in her. “What are you reading?”

“The Lay of Leithian,” she said, glancing at him. She quickly looked away, for his bare chest was facing her.

“Luthien and Beren?” he asked. “I have not read it, though I heard it recounted once. At Aragorn’s wedding feast. Part of it, at least. And it was in elvish, so I did not understand a word.”

“It is a fair tale,” she said, closing the book and placing it on the shelf behind and above them, on the small alcove above the bed. She moved downwards, as he moved closer to her, kissing her neck for a moment, causing her to shiver with pleasure, his hand trailing down her neck to her breasts.

She felt her breath quicken as he positioned himself between her legs, pressing himself against her, his hands running down her side and thigh—

She let out a whimper of pain as his hand ran firmly over her knee. He moved away from her quickly, startled by the noise. “Lothíriel?” he asked, looking at her in worry.

“It’s alright,” she said quickly, trying to move her knee so that it was not easy for him to touch. “Come.”

“What is it?” he asked, before sitting up, tossing the covers away from them.

She quickly covered her knee with her nightdress. “Show me,” he said firmly, in the commanding voice he used with his soldiers that she felt compelled to obey. She slowly brought her knee around to show him, the frill of the nightdress slipping away from it, revealing the bandage.

She could see a faint stain of blood through the bandage, and wondered if it were obvious she had needed sutures. He stared at it for a short while, his face void of any indication of his thoughts, before his brows furrowed into a furious expression.

“Today?” he asked. “When you fell?” She nodded.

“A rock,” she explained, a little shakily. “But it is alright now—Elwyn stitched it up.”

“Sutures? You needed sutures?” he frowned. “Why did no one inform me?”

She flushed, feeling like a scolded child. “I told them not to,” she said, a little too quietly for her pride’s desire.

He looked at her sharply. “Why would you instruct such a thing?”

“I did not want to bother you,” she said, meeting his gaze for a fleeting moment, before quickly looking down at her hands.

He sat back, gazing at her with a strange expression. “You are my _wife,_ Lothíriel. If you are injured—whether it be a wound needing sutures, or a stubbed toe—I wish to know.”

She stared at him for a few moments—surprised at his words. “It’s nothing for you to worry about, really,” she finally said, looking away from him.

He laid down heavily besides her, letting out a long sigh. “Lothíriel,” he murmured softly, lightly running his callused fingers against her bare arm. She shivered slightly.

She was not sure what he was going to say—and he did not seem to think additional words necessary. He blew out the candles beside and above the bed, and rolled over so his back was to her.

She gazed at him, now feeling regretful that she did not tell him sooner. She only hoped this would not create a rift between them. She reached out, hesitantly, almost touching his bare back, but drew her hand away before her skin touched his.

It felt unsettling, that he seemed so bothered by her getting hurt. They hardly knew each other—four months was not long enough to truly learn to care about someone. And yet she felt hurt at his sudden coldness towards her, lying facing away from her. She cared about _him_, certainly. She suspected she might even be falling in love with him. But a one-sided relationship had its downfalls, she knew, the pain of knowing someone will never return one’s feelings.

Finally, she settled onto her back, and closed her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry for the long hiatus! I'm planning on having a new chapter up soon :)
> 
> Also huge thanks to my beta reader @swanofakind!!! 💖
> 
> Thanks for reading so far!! Would love to hear your thoughts!  
See you soon!


	4. Chapter 3

“They’re already growing?” she asked curiously, peering at the plants in neat rows before her. “I don’t see anything on them.” She ran her fingers across the stems, trying to feel for any buds or signs of fruitful life.

The farmer, an old man by the name of Ceda, laughed. “It’s early yet, my Queen. The berries won’t ripen until at least early to mid-summer.”

“Berries?” Lothíriel turned to look up at him in surprise. “What kind of berries?”

“Raspberries,” he answered, leaning on his heels.

“Really?” she asked, her eyes widening, her voice rising slightly in excitement. “Early summer you say?” She could not keep the disappointment from her face as she realized how many months it would take for them to ripen.

“Aye,” he nodded, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Do you enjoy eating them?”

“I _love_ them,” she said, a touch dreamily. “There are not too many in Dol Amroth, though. Too hot. And I believe I usually ate the whole of the supply produced.”

The old man nodded, chuckling.

“Tell me more about what you are growing over there,” she said, and together Lothíriel and the farmer walked alongside the raspberry field towards one another.

“We grow a number of things,” Ceda said. “Squash—butternut, acorn, and zucchini--we have trouble with that one, grows a little too easily. Potatoes of course. Over there we have the orchard,” he pointed a crooked finger towards the east. “And the grazing fields are that way,” he pointed to the north. “We have sheep, and goats, pigs, chickens…and horses, of course.”

She nodded. “Are there many farms around here?”

“Yes, but we’re the largest,” he said proudly. “We supply most of what goes to Edoras and Meduseld. There are smaller farms here and there as you get closer to the villages. And, of course, there’s a horse farm—not far from here. It is run by Farath, and hosts the King’s herd.” 

“Is the Queen’s herd very far?” she asked.

He looked at her in surprise, “It is just west of the king’s,” he said. “But I would have thought you would have visited it by now.”

“I am afraid I have been very busy,” she said with a nonchalant shrug. “I have much to learn about being queen of Rohan—the Riddermark, I mean. I am afraid this is my first true outing out of Edoras.”

He shook his head. “You need to get out of the capitol more often, my Queen. Better for your health.”

She smiled, “I believe the King would be disappointed if I forsook my duties and left too often.”

He nodded, smiling. “It is early in your marriage, which means the love of newlyweds is still strong enough to make a simple day’s outing worth pining over.”

She almost laughed at his words. Her marriage to Éomer was, after all, a marriage of convenience, and not formed out of love.

The only reason Éomer had even considered marrying her was for her dowry, and she accepted because she knew she hardly had any other choice. And looking into the faces of her father and Elessar when they informed her of the match, had been intimidating enough. It would have been impossible to tell them no when they asked for her consent to the marriage.

“Tell me,” Lothíriel said. “Many of these fields look new. Were they replanted recently?”

“Yes,” Ceda nodded solemnly. “Most of my fields were burned to the ground, and my herds slaughtered, by the Dundlendings and orcs.”

“Oh,” she said, looking at him in horror. “How did you and your family survive?”

“We fought, and when there was nothing left to protect, we fled to Edoras. We returned here after the battle at Helm’s Deep.”

“And how did you manage to…revive everything?” she asked.

He looked at her pointedly. “With your dowry, Milady. You’ll find the effects of it all over the Riddermark.”

Lothíriel blinked, before sweeping the expansive farm with her eyes again. For the first time, she realized just how important her marriage to Éomer was. It was good, then, that she had not followed her heart and refused the match. She supposed an arranged and loveless marriage to a good man was better than the ability to choose whom to marry, when such good might not have come from it.

“My Lady!”

It was Elfleda, rushing towards her. “Milady, we must return to Edoras soon—or it’ll be dark…” the girl stopped before them, doubling over from the waist, gasping for breath. She straightened, red in the face from running. “Or it’ll be dark by the time we return.”

“Of course,” Lothíriel said, nodding. “But I have not had a chance to see the womens’ work. Perhaps a quick tour with your wife?” she turned to ask Ceda, who beamed at her.

“This way, my Queen,” he said, motioning for her to follow him.

“My Lady,” Elfleda said worriedly, falling into step with Lothíriel. “We really should try to get back before nightfall—it’s not safe to travel in the dark, especially with only a small escort. We should have brought more—and if his lordship knew we only brought three guards, he would have insisted on more.”

“I did not want to distract his men from their work just because I wanted to see the farms outside my new home,” Lothíriel said matter-of-factly. “If you feel unsafe, you may take two of the guards and return now.”

Elfleda gave her a severe look. “And leave only one guard with you? My Queen, don’t be preposterous. The king will already have our hides for—”

“The king will do no such thing.” Lothíriel shook her head confidently. “He will have hardly noticed we’re gone, if he does at all. And when we return I am sure he will agree with my decision.”

Elfleda gave a small groan of frustration, looking west at the lowering sun with worry.

“Just a quick tour, Mara,” Ceda said, when they found his wife. Before leaving, he wished Lothíriel a farewell, with a, “And please bring more guards with you when you leave the capitol. There are still orcs about.” She promptly refused his request a moment later to send some farm hands with her on the way back to Edoras.

Mara was a pleasant, plump woman who was delighted to show Lothíriel her work. She showed her the cheese cellar, how she made the cheese, as well as the dying and weaving of wool. There were other things as well, and Lothíriel wondered if the women in Edoras did similar things. She had never bothered to ask the common women what they did to entertain themselves. If it were anything like this, she doubted it was very leisurely.

By the time she was ready to leave, the sun was just touching the horizon.

“If it is alright with Ceda,” Ethon, one of the guards, said, “I believe we should stay here for the night. The orcs travel most during dark—it’s not safe.”

“But are there orcs this close to Edoras?” Lothíriel asked. “Surely they have all been killed off by now?”

“It’s not just orcs we have to worry about,” Ethon said. “It’s also wargs. And you don’t want to run into those, especially at night. No, I believe we should stay the night, my Lady. We could send word to Edoras to tell them of the decision. It will take some time—but they’ll know by midnight that we stayed the night here.”

“His lordship will be in council meetings, or most likely, in bed at that hour,” Lothíriel said, startled by the guards suggestion. “A messenger will only disturb him.”

Ethon shifted on his feet uncomfortably. “With all due pardon, my Queen, I believe his wife not returning home after an impromptu ride will disturb him more.”

“Then we shall travel home tonight,” Lothíriel said. She did not want to miss overseeing breakfast tomorrow morning, and she was meeting with Hadi and Cynaburga to go over the budget for Meduseld for the next month. Both were busy with their own duties and disliked disruptions in their schedules. She felt panic rising in her—she needed to return to Edoras _tonight._ Why had she insisted on being shown a demonstration on spinning wool?

“I’m sorry, my Queen, but it is just too dangerous,” Ethon protested. “With only three of us to protect you… the King would—”

“I will deal with the King,” Lothíriel interrupted. “I am sure nothing will happen. I must return to Edoras _tonight_. Tell your men to prepare my horse immediately.”

He did not move, merely looking at her as if deciding how to refuse her order. She drew herself up to her full height, which was, admittedly, not nearly as tall as he was. But she knew how to make her face fierce and stone-like, and soon the man crumbled. Muttering in Rohirric about stubborn women, he turned and trotted off, heading towards where their horses were kept.

“This is folly,” Elfleda said, crossing her arms. “What if we’re attacked?”

“I doubt we will be. In the two and a half months I have lived here, there have been no attacks this close to Edoras,” Lothíriel said. “I am sorry that you are worried, Elfleda. I wish you had gone back earlier—you would be partly home by now.”

“I would not leave you for a thousand reasons,” Elfleda huffed. “I am worried about _you._”

“I would never wish or intend to put you in danger, ‘Leda,” Lothíriel said, placing a hand on the handmaiden’s arm. “But I believe we will be safe. We will be home by the early hours of the morning. But if you wish to stay the night here with Ceda and his wife, I am sure arrangements can be made. I encourage you to do so, if you will be more comfortable.”

“Only if you stay here as well,” Elfleda said irritably. “Really, my Lady, it’s like you don’t care about what happens to you at all.”

Lothíriel expelled a long breath, and walked over to where a guard was bringing her Beathra. She mounted, glancing west to see the brightly colored sunset. There would be daylight for another about hour yet. It was not so bad.

“Are you sure you do not want to stay here?” Lothíriel asked Elfleda. “It may be safer if you stay.”

“Unsafe for me to travel at night, but not for you, the _Queen of the Mark?”_ Elfleda demanded, mounting her own horse. “My Queen, you astound me.”

With an irritable huff, the girl urged her horse forward, heading down the path. With a flick of her heel, Lothíriel sent Beathra after her, the three guards following behind. Ethon soon urged his horse forward, so he was riding ahead of them. The moon was strong, and so they rode without firelight. Lothíriel suspected it was equally so that they could not be spotted by any unwanted eyes.

It was cold—much colder than she had thought it would be. Though she was wrapped in warm clothing and a thick, fur-lined cloak, she found herself shivering, her gloved hands cramping and her arms shaking. She refused the offer from one of the guards to take his own cloak, not wanting him to be cold, but she began to wonder if it were perhaps foolish to have left the farm this night after all…to have abused her power as queen and force these four persons to travel through the cold night.

She felt her eyelids drooping—from exhaustion or the cold, or both, she did not know—when she heard Ethon say something to Elfleda. She looked up, jerking awake, and saw in the distance, light.

“What is that?” Lothíriel asked, coming awake fully, as Beathra fell into place behind Elfleda and Ethon’s horses.

“An entire Éored,” Ethon said, with some dread. “No doubt the king was worried when you did not return, and set out to find you.”The tone of his voice indicated his irritability in finding himself in this situation. And that it should be obvious that they had made a poor decision…that _she_ had made a poor decision.

Lothíriel squinted her eyes, seeing that the horses, traveling quickly, shook the earth beneath Beathra. They drew closer and closer, and all Lothíriel could think of was that she hoped it was not Éomer himself who was coming. If he had come to scold her in front of his Éored, she would melt right into the hard ground in humiliation.

To her detriment and surprise, she saw that it _was_ Éomer at the head of his Éored, dressed in his armor. He put up a hand, bringing Firefoot to a halt before them, his Éored stopping at his command.

When Lothíriel and the others stopped as well, the two parties, one incredibly small, the other incredibly large, merely looked at each other. Then she began to hear whispers somewhere on the other side. She felt her face color, as she saw the men look at her, all with expressions of confusion and exasperation. No doubt they were dragged out of bed to come and find the foolish Stoningland queen they were not sure they liked anyway.

Finally, she shifted her eyes to Éomer’s.

She instantly recoiled.

She had never been looked at with an expression of such anger. He looked like a painting of Mount Doom, fire erupting from its summit. She swallowed, wondering how to smooth over this situation, how to make things right and less…awkward. Less dire.

But no sooner had she opened her mouth to speak, but Éomer spoke. But not to her. “Ethon, son of Ethar, _explain_.” His voice was controlled, but with a sharpness to it that made both Lothíriel and Ethon flinch.

“We visited Old Ceda’s farm,” Ethon said, practically cowering before his king. “It grew late, so—”

“Why did you not stay the night and send word that you would be arriving in the morning?” Éomer demanded. “You would have left there around dusk to be here by now.”

Ethon fumbled with his words, and Lothíriel now found her voice, speaking for the first time. “Ethon did suggest we stay the night. I insisted that we return _tonight_,” she said.

Éomer slowly looked at her, his mouth in a firm line. Finally, he swung his horse around, and his Éored followed him. She and her own companions melded into their flanks, and soon the ride back to Edoras resumed.

She heard more whispers and felt the stares of the men around her. No doubt they were wondering what their king was thinking, marrying someone as foolish and childish as she. Did they regret their king’s decision to marry her? She shivered, drawing her cloak closer around her.

As they traveled, she found herself growing sleepy again. It had to be past midnight, and the wind and cold was growing colder and fiercer. Soon, she saw lights up ahead, and knew they were close to Edoras. She wanted to break into a gallop and get there as quickly as possible, but knew that if she moved faster than a walk she might fall off Beathra, and that would be adding insult to injury.

As they passed through the gates, the guards there looked troubled. Some inhabitants of the city were on their doorsteps, looking on curiously as the multitude of men and riders passed up the road. Many broke off towards their own homes, and by the time they reached the stables, there were only the guards accompanying her and Éomer left.

Éomer dismounted Firefoot, handing the reins to a stable boy. Lothíriel quickly dismounted Beathra, and before she could do or say anything, the stable boy had taken her reins as well, leading both horses away into the stables.

“You three,” Éomer said to the three guards who had accompanied her on her ride, his voice tight with anger, “I will speak with you personally tomorrow. Tonight, I need to speak with my wife.”

He turned and began walking up the steps to Meduseld, but she stood rooted to the spot.

He turned, glaring at her.

She shivered in the dark, cold air. She wanted nothing more than to fall into her warm bed and fall asleep. But somehow she knew that was not going to happen. Afraid, she stepped forward, following Éomer up the steps at a slower pace. Elfleda trailed behind them.

When they entered the hall, Cynaburga was waiting for them. “Thank _Béma_ you are alright,” the old woman breathed. “I have hot food and xhoca waiting for you in your room. Elfleda,” the woman straightened and glared down her straight nose at the handmaiden, who seemed to wither under her gaze, “Come with me.”

“Elfleda wanted to return earlier,” Lothíriel said quickly, “It is not her fault.”

Cynaburga merely shook her head and led Elfleda away.

Éomer and Lothíriel watched them leave before he motioned for her to continue with him up the steps and down the hall. When they reached their bedchambers, she stood in the center of the dimly lit room, looking longingly at the bed with the tray of food and xhoca. How she wanted to curl up and eat and fall asleep…and sleep for at least two days straight. But she knew that was not what was intended for her this night.

She wrapped her arms around her waist, shivering though the roaring fire kept the room warm. Éomer stood before it, elbow on the rim of the hearth, glaring at the flames. It seemed he was trying to control his temper.

She felt fear flare up in her. Would he yell at her? Strike her? Or something worse than either of those things? She remembered that she hardly knew him—three months was hardly enough time to know a man’s worth. What if he _wasn’t_ the man that her father assured her he was? What if he were capable of horrible deeds and inflicted them upon her tonight?

Finally, he spoke. “What were you thinking?”

The anger in his voice was uncontrolled. She flinched and was thankful that he was not looking at her to see it. “I needed to return tonight,” she answered. “I am meeting with Cynaburga and Hadi tomorrow morning and—”

“Surely you could meet with them at another time?” he asked. “And why did you insist on only _three_ guards—” he turned around, taking a step towards her, but froze when she took a few hasty steps backwards away from him.

Immediately, the anger melted away from him. A look of regret replaced it, and he heaved a deep breath. “I am sorry,” he said, finally, his voice tired and spent. “I frightened you. I did not mean to.”

She did not move from her position of defense.

“Why only three guards?” his brows furrowed, and it seemed to Lothíriel that his rage was threatening to return. “Why travel home at night? And why did you not have someone inform me that you were leaving Edoras to ride so far away?”

“I told you,” she said. “I could not risk staying the night. And for the guards, I did not want to take up unnecessary time. Wasting three guards time is better than more.”

“Waste?” he demanded, before forcing himself to calm down again. “What duty do they have if not to protect you, Lothíriel? And what of the other thing? Why did you not tell me you were going to be gone?”

“You were in a meeting,” she said simply.

He blinked. “That is the only reason?”

“I thought…” she said, clutching her cloak tighter around her, looking down at the ground. “I did not realize you would notice my absence.”

The silence grew heavy and uncomfortable. Lothíriel forced herself to keep Éomer’s gaze. His face was still, as if he was still processing what she had said. “You did not think,” Éomer began, slowly, “that I would not have noticed, at the very least, that you were gone from our bed?”

She felt shame creep up her neck, threatening to color her cheeks. How could she explain that she assumed that he would not miss her? That she would have expected him to spend the night with _someone_, even if not her. She wrung her hands. “You must think me terribly childish.”

“Foolhardy, certainly,” he replied grimly. “I thought something had happened to you, Lothíriel.”

She looked up, surprised. He had been worried for her? Or was it his duty as her husband, and his oath to her father to care for her that bound him to take such actions? With a sigh, she looked at the bed. “If it is alright, My Lord, I think I shall retire for the evening.”

He nodded. “Beocca is waiting for me in my dressing room,” he said. “I will join you shortly.”

He walked and shut the door hard behind him. She stared at the wood, before quickly getting undressed, braiding her hair, and slipping under the covers. She had blown out most of the candles in the room, save the one by Eomer’s side of the bed. She hoped it would influence him into knowing that she did not wish to uphold her wifely duties tonight.

When he did slip in beside her, he did so quietly and blew out the candle, and all was silent and dark except for the crackling of the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TO BE CONTINUED…
> 
> Thanks for reading!!
> 
> Big Thank You to my Beta Reader, @swanofakind !! :D (@transfinduilas and @swanofakind on tumblr :D )


	5. Chapter 4

When she woke the next day, Éomer was gone. She blinked blearily, sitting up. She realized why she had awoken—a servant girl was tending to the fire. “Oh,” Lothíriel said, and the girl nearly jumped a mile and spun around, blushing deeply and mumbling apologizes. “It is no matter,” Lothíriel yawned. “When you have finished with that, can you fetch Elfleda?”

The servant girl nodded. She could not be more then eleven or twelve years old, with flaxen hair typical of the Eorlingas, and a scrawny frame. She quickly finished her work with the fire, and disappeared into the latrine, leaving through the separate door. Sometime later, Elfleda came in. She looked as if she had not slept all night.

“What happened to you?” Lothíriel asked, struck with surprise and horror at Elfleda’s fatigued expression.

“Cynaburga had me shining all the pots and pans and silverware,” Elfleda said. She then went and opened the cabinet. “What dress would you like to wear today?”

“She had you doing _what_?” Lothíriel asked, aghast. _Her_ handmaiden, polishing silverware like a common servant?

Elfleda ignored her, pulling out a crimson dress. “How about this one, my lady?”

“’Leda,” Lothíriel slipped out of bed, hurrying over to the other woman. “Why did Cynaburga have you do that?”

Elfleda did not meet her gaze. “Cynaburga thought…I should have forced you to come home earlier.”

“Oh,” Lothíriel blinked a few times. “Well, she should have punished _me_, then, instead of you.”

Elfleda almost looked like she was going to laugh at Lothíriel’s statement. “Éomer King would have had her hide if she made _you_ polish silverware all night.”

Lothíriel looked down at her feet. “I am sorry, that I caused you trouble, ‘Leda. Had I known his lordship would react in such a way—that he would ride out with half his eored to search for me…”

“Of course he would have done it,” Elfleda snorted, placing the dress over the chair and setting to picking out jewelry that matched. “You are his wife—_and_ the queen of the Mark. And it’s _him_. He’s that sort, you know.”

“I still think it was foolish of him,” Lothíriel said, as she removed her nightdress and began dabbing at herself with a damp cloth and lavender oil.

Elfleda made a show of shrugging her shoulders, a very mocking look on her face, before she realized what she was doing and blushed furiously. “Forgive me, my lady,” she said. “It’s just…I tend to get the impression that you think his lordship doesn’t…even _care_ about you.”

Lothíriel quickly looked at her, wondering why her handmaiden had so painstakingly brought the fact up.

Elfleda stood there, looking back at her as if waiting for some kind of answer. “Surely you know he cares about you,” she finally said. “At least a little.”

Lothíriel opened her mouth, but was not sure what to say that would not offend the maid. Finally, she gave a lopsided shrug. “I suppose he does,” she said finally. “He owes a lot to my dowry, and my father, and my father is a good friend of his. It would look quite terrible if I were to die within the early years of our marriage.”

Elfleda’s mouth dropped open. “Surely you don’t think that is the _only_ reason he…_because of your father—dowry—_Lothiri—_my lady,_ forgive me for saying this, but you are as thick as… as… well, as a troll!”

Lothíriel’s eyes widened. She had never been likened to a troll in her life. “I would watch your tongue, Elfleda,” she said, before she saw that the girl was barely managing, and mostly failing, to conceal laughter. Soon she found herself laughing as well. “I have never been told I was as stupid as a troll before,” Lothíriel said, after her laughter slowly subsided.

“Well, it’s true,” Elfleda said, grinning at her. “You’re quite smart, for a Stoninglander, but…” she shook her head. “Éomer King did not ride off to rescue you just because you are Prince Imrahil’s daughter. It was because…he cares for you—I know, I know, perhaps he doesn’t love you _yet,_ but he cares about you. We all do.”

Lothíriel stared at her, unbelieving. It seemed preposterous, what the woman was saying. Perhaps it was true, she told herself. But did she even _want_ it to be true? She did. Desperately. But there was something inside her, a little needle inching its way through her heart, that made her wince at every thought that Éomer might care for her. Sighing deeply, she sat down heavily, feeling weak and exhausted.

“My lady?” Elfleda was by her side in an instant, bending down and peering into Lothíriel’s face. “My lady, what is the matter?”

“Nothing, ‘Leda,” Lothíriel said, shaking her head. “I just got a spell of dizziness is all. I think… I would like breakfast. I know it is early—and then I would like to go for a ride.”

“Oh,” Elfleda said. “Let us get you into your riding clothes then, and go to the kitchens—”

“Absolutely not,” Lothíriel said quickly. “I’ll get dressed first, and then come back for my riding clothes before I head out.”

“If you insist,” Elfleda said, raising her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “I will tell you that no one would care if they saw you eating breakfast in your riding clothes.”

“No matter,” Lothíriel said, “I shall not do it.” Then she grinned at Elfleda, and the younger woman sniggered playfully.

Breakfast was a cold affair. Cynaburga gave Lothíriel the cold shoulder, obviously angry that Lothíriel’s antics the day before had forced Éomer to endanger himself and head out in the middle of the night. By the time Lothíriel reached the stables, Éomer and a few of his guards were returning from their own morning ride.

She was leading Beathra towards the large open door leading out to the path the led to the main road, when Éomer stepped in front of her. For a moment, a hush lay over the large stables, before the men quickly and hurriedly resumed their conversations.“Yes, my lord?” she asked, looking at him in what she hoped was a quizzical expression. “Can I help you with something?”

“I don’t think it warrants reminding,” he said, clearly still angry about the night before, “That should you be more than a quarter of a day, you send someone to inform me.”

She narrowed her eyes. Something about his tone irked her. She was used to men telling her _what_ to do, _how_ to do it—_when_ and _where_. But somehow, it seemed… more irritating now. Now that she was a _queen_. “I don’t see how it is any of your business what I do or don’t do, your lordship,” she replied, her tone tense.

His eyes twitched slightly, and his jaw tensed, for a moment, she could swear there was a slight hiccup in the conversations around them, as the men doing their work seemed to realize that their king and queen were on the verge of a row. “It is my _business_,” Éomer said tersely, “because you are my _wife. _And I would rather not repeat any instances where you could be captured or killed.”

“If you are irritated that you had to ride out to ‘save’ me, then I assure you, such a feat will never be necessary,” she said. “I did not ask for you to endanger yourself, and I hereby request you never do so again. I am sorry that I inconvenienced you, but I assure you, there is no need to extend any thought towards me beyond what is absolutely contractually necessary.”

She made to move around him, and for the stunned look on his face, and his frozen posture, she almost made it.

He snatched Beathra’s reins from her—a mistake he should have known better than to do, for the horse nearly reared onto her hind legs in anger. Éomer had an almost terrifying and strange look on his face, and Lothiriel shrank away from him. The stable had grown quiet again. Lothíriel pressed herself against Beathra, who calmed at the touch.Finally, Éomer looked like he was painfully forcing himself to calm down. “Come with me,” he said, nodding over his shoulder and letting go of Beathra’s reins.

Lothíriel followed him, and soon they reached the large house where extra hay and food for the horses was kept. She stood, standing close to Beathra in case Éomer got violent, and waited, shivering, for him to speak.

He stood, his back to her, as if he was trying to figure out what he was going to say to her. _Was he going to scold her for making a scene in front of his men?_ she wondered.

Suddenly, she felt as though his anger was melting away, though he was turned away from her, so she could not know for sure if any danger was gone.

“If you must know why I am upset…it is not because of the…_inconvenience_ of riding out in the middle of the night. It was the sheer terror I felt when I was informed that you were still gone—without word, and only three guards and your maid with you.” He finally turned to look at her, a wrecked expression on his face. “That was a terror I had not felt since I saw my sister lying on the Pelennor Fields. I thought…” he looked down for a moment. “I thought, if something happened to you, too…”

“Oh,” she said softly, before letting go of Beathra’s reins, and walking towards him. “Éomer…”

He looked up, startled. It was the first time she had said his name to his face in such an informal manner. “Please,” she continued, “I am sorry—I should have realized you would have… because of Éowyn… I’m sorry,” she said, looking down at her boots. “I made a foolish mistake, because I assumed no one would notice that I was even gone.”

He laughed, and she looked up at him, startled. “Not notice?” he asked. “Everyone in Edoras knew you had left—except me, since you had not instructed anyone to tell me and they assumed I already knew.”

She gave out a teary laugh. “‘Everyone’ in Edoras must think me a very foolish queen,” she said.

He nodded, “They do, indeed.”

She looked quickly up at him in horror. “But,” he said, placing a hand on each of her hips and drawing her flush against him, “You are _my_ queen, and_ their_ queen, and so I daresay they’ll forgive you for it.”

She laughed against his lips, and then wrapped her arms around his neck.

This was perfect, she thought, as they shooed Beathra from the room and made a comfortable spot for themselves in the hay. She might just fall in love with Éomer after all, if she hadn’t already.

* * *

Lothíriel opened her eyes, blinking slightly, relishing in her current state of warmth, before realizing with a start that Éomer lay flush against her back. His arm was draped over her side, holding her close to him. She could not help herself but blush at the sensation of being held, and especially with his fingers brushing up against the underside of her breasts.

Unsure if he was awake or still asleep, she dared not move—afraid that if she did so, he might wake and move away from her. She licked her lips slightly. She had to get up—judging by the light sneaking in through the cracks in the window panes, she knew that breakfast was being prepared—and she had duties to attend to.

She shifted slightly, and heard Éomer mumble some sort of protest, drawing her even tighter against himself. An odd concoction of irritation, desire, and fondness overcame her. She needed to get up—but she did not want to leave with Éomer holding her in such an intimate embrace.

“My Lord…” she whispered. It was strange—he usually woke earlier than she did most of the time at least. His years as one of Rohan’s military leaders ensured him the habit of waking early. He did not seem to have the same habit as she did—she could sleep all day _and_ night if given the opportunity.

She licked her lips again, shifting her body a bit more, but he held her firm.

He had to be awake, she thought to herself. No person could so…_unintentionally_ hold someone like this. “My Lord,” she said, a little louder. “My Lord?”

She felt him take a deep intake of breath, before he moved again. He had been asleep, she realized with some regret, as he woke with a start, and after a moment, moved away from her. “What time is it?” he asked, a little groggily.

“I do not know,” she answered, regretting her decision to wake him up, for despite the plethora of furs and blankets, she felt cold and alone now that he was not holding her. Not used the cold climates of the northern winters, she often felt chilled. She turned around to face him—and found her face only inches away from his. Her eyes widened, and she quickly looked away.

“I am sorry,” he said, after a moment.

“For what?” she asked, sitting up, before yawning and stretching her arms. She would have to hurry downstairs—she knew she was late for the preparations of breakfast. No doubt Cynaburga would be disapproving of her tardiness. She lifted some of the blankets and furs away from herself, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

She froze as she felt Éomer’s hands brush against her arm, halting her. She twisted around to look at him in confusion. “Is something the matter, My lord?”

He frowned, before drawing his hands way from her. “No,” he said, sitting up as well.“Are you alright?”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Why would I not be?”

“You seem in a rush to leave this morning,” he pointed out.

“I overslept,” she said, smiling reassuring at him. “I have duties to attend to—and you are late for your morning ride.” She stood up, her toes stinging as they touched the cold furs on the ground by her bed. She stretched again, before realizing with a shock that she was wearing not a piece of clothing, and that Éomer was currently gazing appreciably at her naked form.

With a small squeak, she ducked down to a crouching position, the bed hiding her from his view. He raised an eyebrow, looking partly amused, and partly confused. “My lord…” she whispered. “Do you mind…averting your gaze…for a short time…”

He blinked, before promptly erupting into laughter.

Her face burned as he laid back down, still laughing heartily.

“My lord!” she hissed, glancing with horror at the door—where their guards no doubt could hear Éomer’s barks of laughter. “Not so loud!”

His laughter settled into a deeply amused chuckle. He turned on his side, gazing at her smugly. “Are you embarrassed to be seen by me?” he asked.

“No,” she said, though it was not quite the truth. “I just…”

“I am your husband,” he said, grinning at her, “What is so embarrassing about being seen by _me_?”

Her face flushed deeply, and she pursed her lips in annoyance. “It is not that I am embarrassed,” she said, slowly and deliberately, beginning to inch her way around the bed—now determined not to let him see an inch of her. “It is just…it is just…unseemly. I am naked, after all.”

“I’m well aware,” he asked, his tone almost sultry, his eyes following her around the bed. “Is this why you do not look at me when I am naked?”

She was sure her face would stay red permanently, with how hard she was blushing. “My lord,” she said, “Please avert your gaze…Elfleda will be arriving soon to help me dress so…I daresay you should go to your dressing room now.”

He shook his head, still chuckling to himself as he got up out of bed and walked up to her. Realizing that they were now both naked, with no blankets or bed to hide themselves from each other, she gave a quick squeak, grabbing her robe from the chest at the bottom of the bed, and covering herself with it. She stood slowly, keeping her eyes trained on his face.

He gazed at her for a moment, before taking a step forward and placing his hands on his shoulders. “Are all Gondorian women like this?” he asked, his tone deeply amused.

“That is not—!” she began, wondering why he should ask such a thing. After all—did he not partake in pleasures of the flesh after the war was over? It seemed to her, given how men talked during that time, that the prostitutes of Minas Tirith were never long without work. But those were prostitutes, she realized, not the prude and naive noble women such as herself. “You should know the answer to that,” she said, a little sharper than she intended.

He frowned, and his hands slipped away from her shoulders ever so slightly, before resumed their gentle grasp and he smiled again at her, before drawing her closer to him.

“My lord!” she hissed, glancing at the door. If Elfleda came in at this moment…!

“Why must you always call me that?” he asked, before placing a kiss on her left cheek.

She blushed. “It is only polite to do so,” she began.

“We are not within earshot of anyone,” he said. “In our privacy, I would like you to call me Éomer.”

“I…that is,” she stuttered, as he kissed her collarbone. Her chest heaved with desire as his hands trailed down her arms and side, and he drew her closer to him, kissing her jaw. “Your—our—guards are outside,” she whispered, “And I am sure they can hear you.”

He drew away slightly. He looked even more amused. “Oh? And what can they hear that was not heard last night? Or any night?”

She stared up at his face. She had no argument, however, to that bit of logic.

“I must get dressed,” she said, taking a hasty step away from him. She did not want to leave him—his increasing comfort with touching her a welcome change from their awkward first few months of marriage. It seemed the King of the Riddermark was finally getting comfortable with her. Perhaps, if this continued, she would finally be blessed with a child.

He watched her as she turned around. She heard him whistle, and looked over her shoulder to inquire why he whistled in such a lewd way, when she realized that her backside was completely exposed to him. “_My lord_!” she exclaimed, quickly covering herself.

He laughed loud and boisterous at her blushing face.

“_Do not laugh_!” she said, pronouncing each word with deliberate force, her eyes widening with anger, but mostly humiliation. This morning was one that would make her cringe with humiliation for years to come. She pointed at the door to his private room. “Go,” she ordered. “_Now_.”

Still chuckling to himself while flashing her a flirtatious smile, Éomer bowed in what she could only assume was in a mocking fashion, before leaving the room.

She swallowed hard.

How _dare_ he tease her so! Was he blind to her feelings? Mocking her in such a way? She shook her head, as she put on her robe properly, hugging herself around her middle. She sighed angrily. Did he—or does he still—act this way with all his lovers? Or did he just enjoy teasing and poking fun at her alone?

She rolled her eyes, turning her face to glare at the door that separated them. Éomer King may be a good and just ruler—beloved by his people, and a trusted friend of her father, but…

He had no right to play with her heart like this!

Elfleda soon arrived and began to help her dress for the day. While Lothíriel sat and Elfleda braided and pinned her hair to her head Lothíriel figured that she should feel grateful that he was starting to trust her—trust her enough to act comfortably and casually around her. She should be grateful, she thought to herself, that he was…opening up to her. Showing her his true self. They were married for almost five months now—and though she was still not with child, she knew it would not be long until she finally became pregnant.

Every day, she found him more and more endearing—and as she came to know him better, the more her heart yearned for him. Perhaps one day—one day, if she proved herself to be a good queen and wife—if she bore him a son—perhaps many sons…perhaps…

Perhaps he might return her feelings.

One day.

* * *

She was aware of the silence before she realized she had not been paying attention to Lady Hild’s question. “I am so sorry,” she said, startled. “I was lost in thoughts.”

“I wonder what you were thinking about, to not even have realized for so long that everyone was waiting for your answer,” Lady Hild said, giving a small nod of the head and a gentle smile. “But my question was, do you plan to go to Cormallen this coming up year?”

Lothíriel blinked. Her thoughts almost escaped again—drawn to the events of this morning. It was not just the humiliation she felt—and the small amount of anger she felt that he teased her so…she also could not shake the feeling of his body pressed against hers. She felt a wave of pleasure wash over her, and she felt herself wishing it was already nightfall…

Éomer was becoming bolder in terms of their physical interactions. Now he did not only make contact with her at night but in other moments as well. Lothíriel had to admit she felt a thrill whenever he did so.

“What?” she asked, a little dazed, as she turned to face Lady Hild.

The women in the solar laughed. She blushed, realizing she had once again become lost in her thoughts.

“I apologize, ladies,” she said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I…my mind is elsewhere today.”

Lady Hild chuckled. “Of course, my lady. You have not answered my question yet, and I would rather not ask it a third time.”

“Oh!” Lothíriel started for a moment, before speaking. “I do plan to go—after all, I am not yet…” she trailed off, biting her lip. She was not yet pregnant—or at least, not yet aware of it, if she was—and as such there was a good chance she might not be still pregnant or nursing when the celebrations at Cormallen came around again.

Lady Hild nodded. “Do not fret, my lady. It will happen when it is supposed to.”

Lothíriel nodded, looking down, shame filling her. She was not pregnant—and almost five months had passed. She _should_ be starting to be visibly pregnant by now—but instead, there was no indication that she would ever get pregnant. She bit her lip worriedly, wondering when someone else would take her place. After all, there were only seven months left till their first year of marriage was complete. If she did not bear him a son by then—or at this point, if she was not pregnant by a years’ end—she could be cast out, sent back to Dol Amroth in shame.

She could feel her face paling slightly at the thought.

Though initially she had been only worried about disappointing her father and Elessar…now she found herself dreading being cast out for an entirely different reason.

Éomer.

She could not help but feel affection towards him. More than just affection, she knew what she was in the beginning of feeling was love, and her feelings for him seemed to be growing quickly and fiercely. Though she hated feeling jealous—and knew she had no right to be—she could not help but fear that he took other women into his bed. Not just because they could replace her in title…but the thought that he might love another woman, when he did not love her… Frustration and jealousy built up inside her chest.

She breathed steadily, reminding herself that she had no right to deny him the right to take a lover, a mistress, or to cast her out if she did not bear him an heir soon. He was able to do as he wished. She had no governance over him. She did not dare to presume he would be faithful to her—not when their marriage was arranged as it was.

And not when he did not return her feelings.

If he looked elsewhere for love…

She could not fault him for it.

“My Lady, you _are_ indeed distracted today,” Lady Hild said, chuckling. “Is something on your mind?”

Lothíriel quickly looked away. There was something on her mind, and it was her husband. Though the ladies in the solar often talked of things that would make Lothíriel blush—which was part of the reason men were never allowed within its walls…Lothíriel doubted that they would want to hear the intimate details of her marriage and feelings for Éomer.

“I…” she said, before shaking her head. “Lady Fraeth, could you help me with this…I think I messed a part of this up and I’m not sure how to fix it…”

Lady Fraeth smiled, before standing up and sitting on the bench along with Lothíriel, and the conversation changed and continued in the solar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TO BE CONTINUED…
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Big thanks to my beta reader @swanofakind!!
> 
> See y’all soon!


	6. Chapter 5

At the mid-day meal later that day, she sat beside Éomer but did not look at him. Still embarrassed about her behavior that morning—and the fact that he had teased her so relentlessly—she did not have the heart to converse with him.

“Is something wrong, my Queen?” he asked, laughter in his voice.

She pursed her lips slightly, before finally turning to look at him. She gazed at him—suddenly unable to find the words to scold him. She could feel her anger melting when he smiled at her. He reached out to brush a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

_His_ Queen. She _loved_ when he referred to her in such a way. _His._

She looked away, but not before he could see the smile tugging at her lips. He gave a small laugh, his fingers brushing against her sleeve. “You are not too upset about this morning, I hope?”

She tried to remain reserved, but could not help the smile that spread across her face. “Your Lordship presumes too much,” she said, glancing at him quickly.

His smile caused another wave of desire to wash over her. How little he had to do to put her in such a state! She could feel her cheeks warming—and quickly looked away again. The King of Rohan was certainly good at flirting, she had to admit.

“I heard from Cynaburga that you plan to join me on my next trip to Aldburg,” he said.

“I do,” she replied. “Since…” her words died on her tongue, as she looked around, worriedly.Though she assumed it was public knowledge that she was not yet with child…she still felt uncomfortable at the thought of admitting so when anyone could hear her. The shame was too great to talk casually about it.

He nodded, “Good,” he said. “I will enjoy your company there—You will finally get to see my birthplace.”

She turned to look at him in such a sudden motion that he almost moved away from her in surprise. “Oh!” she said, before looking down at her lap, to hide the pleased look on her face. “That would be wonderful, My Lordship.”

He gave her a strange smile—and she worried he was about to change his mind. Finally he said, “There is no reason to be so thankful,” he said, giving her a slightly confused look. “It is good for you to see more of the Mark while you can.”

They ate their meal in relative silence—though Lothiriel’s heart sang with joy at the thought of visiting Aldburg. That Éomer tolerated her going there…and did not seem too opposed to her seeing his birthplace and childhood home.

When they finished eating, Éomer rose. He was to join his council in meetings for the day, and Lothíriel, for her part, was due to join the ladies in the solar. She gently grabbed his sleeve, halting him from moving away. He paused, looking down at her in concern, before she rose too and stood a little closer to him. “Thank you, my Lord,” she said.

“For?” he asked, almost a little breathlessly, and she wondered if he was feeling unwell. She looked up at him, concern on her own face. His fingers grazed her hips, almost as if he wanted to hold her.

Realizing they had a potential audience, and not wanting to embarrass him by acting too affectionate in front of his men, she stepped away from him, looking down at her feet. “For allowing me come with you to Aldburg,” she said.

“Lothíriel,” he began after a moment, quietly.

Worried he would say he changed his mind, she quickly curtsied. “I will take my leave now, my Lord.” She turned around and fled, her heart pounding in her throat.

When she reached her bedchambers, she found that Elfleda and a servant girl were tending to her wardrobe, laying out the clothes that were to be washed or mended. Lothíriel swept into the room, and collapsed onto the bed, breathing heavily, before slowly sliding off the bed and onto the floor.

She sat there for a moment, before realizing that Elfleda and the servant girl were staring at her, mouths agape. “What is it?” Lothíriel asked, concerned.

“You…” Elfleda looked both bemused and concerned. “Is everything right, my Lady?”

“I am fine,” Lothíriel struggled into a standing position. “I am just…” she glanced at the servant girl, before giving Elfleda a pointed look.

Elfleda nodded, and turned to give instructions to the girl to leave and come back in an hour. The girl curtsied and quickly left, glancing over her shoulder worriedly at Lothíriel, before disappearing through the door. “My Lady?” Elfleda guided Lothíriel to her vanity table, where Lothíriel could see her own blushing face in the mirror. “Is everything alright? You seem…not yourself…”

“I am just happy, ‘Leda,” Lothíriel said. “His Lordship…has agreed to allow me to go to Aldburg.”

Elfleda blinked a few times, before smiling. “Congratulations, my Lady,” she said. “But…are you not the queen of these lands? Who is the king to tell you where you can or cannot go?”

It was Lothiriel’s turn to be a bit stunned. “Well, I am his wife and—”

“Not every wife is a _queen,” _ Elfleda pointed out, beginning to touch up Lothiriel’s hair. “And besides, why wouldn’t he want you to go to Aldburg?”

Lothíriel pursed her lips. How could she explain to Elfleda that Éomer might have kept a mistress there? Or at least had lovers there, at one point if not still? She had never truly tried to visit Aldburg not just because she was kept busy with her queenly duties, but because she had not wanted to impede on Éomer’s privacy.

“It’s complicated,” she said. “The King and I are—”

Elfleda let out a soft groan. “Not this again,” Lothíriel heard the handmaiden mutter. “Don’t you see,” Elfleda said, wrapped her arms around Lothiriel’s shoulders, gazing at her earnestly through the mirror. “That Éomer King is so fond of you, my Lady?”

Lothíriel blinked a few times. “Fond of me?” she asked, slowly, daring to believe it. “I…suppose that is true. We have become good friends over the past few months…”

“Friends?” Elfleda made a face. “I daresay you’re more than friends with your _husband_, my Queen. No…I’m quite certain Éomer King fancies you quite a bit…as does many others,” she added coyly, straightening. “I overheard the stableboys talking about you other other day and—”

“They _what?” _Lothíriel asked, aghast.

“Oh, just stable talk,” Elfleda shrugged, though she had a sour look on her face. “You know how boys and men can be. Anyway, Éomer King overheard them, and they’re _still_ on mucking duty, and I heard they’ll on mucking duty for two whole years.” Elfleda looked rather smug, “I even saw one of the young men who was saying quite lewd and offensive of things about you sporting a black eye the next day.”

Lothíriel considered this, before speaking. “It was kind of Éomer King to defend my honor is such a way.”

“Defend your honor?” Elfleda looked a bit surprised. “Well, yes—but I suspect he also wasn’t fond of other men speaking about his wife in such a way…”

Lothíriel reached out and picking out a different pair of earrings, and set to putting them on. “He was just being honorable,” she said. “And as my husband, it is his right to defend me—but I do not think there was any…anything _more_ in it then that.”

“_I_ do,” Elfleda said, teasingly. “Éomer King fancies you—and the idea of other men _lusting_ after you—”

“_Elfleda!” _Lothíriel said, turning to look at her handmaiden in horror at her handmaidens uncouth words.

_“—_makes him rage with jealously and anger,” Elfleda said, now beginning to giggle. “Éomer King doesn’t want _any_ man to even _imagine_ themselves with you—he wants to hold you in his arms and for you to be his forever and to love you _passionately_ _and_—”

Lothíriel, laughing, picked up a cloth and swiped it at Elfleda, who was now giggling hysterically. “Enough of that nonsense,” Lothíriel said, shaking her head in good humor. She examined her appearance, turning her head from side to side to make sure there were no hairs out of place, before standing up. “I am due at the solar. Collect me in three hours if I have not come back before then.”

Elfleda curtsied, still giggling, as Lothíriel left the bedchamber.

* * *

Lothíriel felt someone shake her, and she closed her eyes tighter, moaning slightly in protest. When someone gently shook her again, she swatted at their hands lethargically, and heard laughter.

Éomer’s laughter.

She opened her eyes, and saw it was still dark. She could see by the light of the fire—a servant, or Éomer, must have tended to it recently—Éomer’s face peering down at her fondly. “Wake up,” he whispered. “We have to set out in two hours.”

“Oh!” she sat up, nearly colliding with his head, before yawning. “What time is it?”

“Barely sunrise,” Éomer said, leaning back against the pillows. “But it’ll take some time to get everything ready to set out.”

“Good thing we packed already,” Lothíriel said, laughing slightly. She gazed at him, smiling, before stretching and yawning again. “How long again will it take to reach Aldburg?”

“About a week at least,” he said. “With my riders it takes only eight days—less if we would run our horses to the ground. But with supplies and a wagon and a walking pace…it might take up to ten or eleven days before we reach it.”

Lothíriel nodded, sighing deeply, before stretching again. She arched her back, stretching her spine, and her hair, half falling out of its braid, draped down her back.

She felt strong arms wrap around her, pulling her close, and she gave out a small noise of surprise as Éomer drew her to him. He buried his face in her neck, one arm holding her close, the other moving down her side, to her thighs.

“But_,”_ she whispered, her breathing quickly turning erratic with desire and surprise. “The servants will be here soon to…” she let out a gasp as he moved his fingers to between her thighs, a smile forming on her face as pleasure washed over her. She held onto him tightly, kissing his ear, before he rolled her so he was laying over her. He kissed her mouth, and when he drew away she could see in his eyes how much he wanted her.

She bit her lips slightly, disappointed at knowing that this would have to end prematurely, as they would have to get ready to set out soon. Her chest heaving, she said, “We have to get ready, my Lord.”

“We can leave a little late,” he whispered, kissing her again.

* * *

They did end up leaving late—and it seemed to Lothíriel that everyone seemed to know the reason. After all, Éomer had instructed the servants who had come knocking to help them get ready to leave and come back at a later time, and unless everyone mistook the order for a chance to sleep in, there was only one explanation.

She felt her cheeks grow rosy as one of Éomer’s riders glanced at her as she took Beathra’s reins from him, a knowing smile on his face. Or perhaps it was just her imagination.

She saw Éomer approach her, planting both hands on her hips and effortlessly lifting her into her saddle.

One of his riders whistled, and her blush was deep and apparent even against her southern skin, which was naturally darker than that of the Rohirrim. Éomer stood at her knees, gazing up at her with a sly expression on his face, his hand resting on her knee. “Stay here,” he said, “I’ll return in a moment.”

She nodded mutely, watching as he jogged off in Firefoot’s direction.

“Queen Lothíriel,” a stern voice spoke nearby, and Lothíriel turned to see Cynaburga approach her. “Safe travels, my Queen,” the housekeeper said, bowing. When the woman straightened, she still had no smile on her face—which did not surprise Lothíriel as the woman rarely smiled, and least of all at her.

Lothíriel titled her head in thanks, before hearing Éomer shout an order, before urging Firefoot in Lothíriel’s direction. Facing the opposite direction from her, and brought Firefoot alongside Beathra, and reached out his hand for Lothíriel.

She gazed at it for a moment, before reaching out and taking it. He squeezed his hand, and she smiled. Letting go of her hand, he turned and motioned for her to ride next to him. A horn sounded, and they set off for Aldburg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TO BE CONTINUED…
> 
> Thanks for reading!!  
See you soon!


End file.
